6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I dle time, or long hours in which one had nothing to occupy oneself, was a phenomenon which Beatrice had never experienced before. Boredom was an entirely foreign concept. From the moment that she was old enough to occupy herself in some fashion, she had done so. This complete stillness, with no discernible destination, was intolerable.

But Beatrice was determined to keep herself from the ton, the public at large, really. If they did not appreciate her charms, they did not deserve them as far as she was concerned; she could not be rejected if she rejected them first . She had to banish the thought that this was a fairly moot point, as she was receiving no invitations, and had been not-so-discreetly discouraged from appearing at the theatre.

In fact, the only mention she saw of herself in the outside world was in the scandal sheets and gossip columns. Each story printed was more outrageous than the last, with just enough truth peppered in to make it sound plausible. If she dared to venture out, she could hear little snatches of whispered conversations, always just behind her back and out of sight. Ladies were inclined to fully cross the street when they saw her coming, lest they be tarnished by even this brief association.

The list of her alleged sins grew by the day: She was a shameless, fallen woman, bent on seducing every man of the ton and ruining him; she was a petty thief who used her position to ascertain the best targets, and would then send a cohort of thieves to carry out burglaries; she was a French spy, using her charms to wile government secrets out of any man she could get her claws into. These were simply the ones that were repeatable—there were more than a few that would have made a sailor blush with the language involved.

So it was that Beatrice spent a week in isolation, venturing out rarely. It was on the second day of her solitude that she pushed all of the furniture aside in her apartment sitting room so that she might practise her stretches and a few steps, not wishing to grow stiff from inactivity. Of course, this caused an uncomfortable realisation: She did not actually own her apartment, nor any of the furniture in it. It was all due to a gentleman's patronage; he had wanted to offer Beatrice carte blanche , as it was politely known, and she had refused. He had kindly allowed her to stay, but now...

So, it was more of a relief than she would have liked to admit when a neat little invitation was left for her, from Lady Eva. The address was unfamiliar, however, a very stylish number near the even more stylish St. James. The appointment was scheduled for the very next day, at precisely half past two in the afternoon. That caused Beatrice's eyes to widen: That was the prime hour for paying calls, when she would likely be observed. That could mean only one of two things, either the hostess was ignorant of Beatrice's current predicament, or she was foolhardy and did not care who saw her come.

***

I t was far, far worse than Beatrice had feared: The hostess was not only aware of the miasma of scandal around Beatrice, she was also entirely sympathetic. The lady in question turned out to be the Duchess of Brandon, which should not have really been surprising; she was, herself, of somewhat murky origin, and had taken to sponsoring any number of modern artists and writers. Beatrice had to suppose that she simply wanted to add herself to her collection.

Beatrice found herself sitting in a large and airy drawing room, with plaster moulding all along the ceiling and corners. The chairs, while straight-backed in the French Louis style, were well-padded and richly upholstered in green striped damask. A tea service was laid out, with more buns, cream, and jam than could feed an entire family for a week.

Across from her, Lady Eva and the duchess both watched Beatrice with twin expressions of pity and beatific kindness. They were genteel, well-heeled ladies with soft hands and soft voices. They offered Beatrice tea and cake by turns, or little cucumber sandwiches, anything at all to see to her comfort.

It all made Beatrice feel a little claustrophobic. She had to work not to allow her more suspicious nature to take root, as she had the distinct impression that they were all waiting for something. Whatever that something was, she could not say, but there was no doubt that there was an air of expectation in the room. Her suspicions seemed confirmed when both Eva and the duchess took to glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"This seems like a great deal of refreshments for just the three of us," Beatrice commented nonchalantly, watching from the corner of her eye to see their reaction.

"We shall have one other guest joining us," the duchess replied smoothly, thoroughly unruffled. "Then you will see why so many pots of jam are necessary."

At last, when Beatrice did not think she could take it anymore, the drawing room door opened, and a third guest was admitted. This turned out to be none other than Lady Patience Chester, younger sister of the Duchess of Brandon. She was a dainty lady with gentle, dainty features, her cheeks reddened from the cold. It also seemed the exercise, for she was huffing and puffing, having not even paused to remove her gloves in the hallway. A distressed-looking maid followed behind her, wringing her hands as she waited to receive bonnet and glove.

"I do apologise for being late," Lady Chester said in a light, breathy voice. "You would not believe the crush of traffic around the palace just now—carriages stretching for miles."

"Mm," the duchess agreed. "My husband has been summoned to court as well."

"Well, that means that we shall be able to have our little ladies' tea without masculine interruption, then," Lady Chester said with a soft smile as she slipped from her pelisse. Everything about her was soft, from her face to her figure.

Beatrice's eye was immediately drawn to an undeniable plumpness about Lady Chester's waist; though it was fashionable for young ladies to have a certain fleshiness about their arms and chins, there was only one reason for a lady's dress to swell about the belly like that. It could not be mentioned in polite company, of course, but Beatrice caught the duchess' eye, who quirked a little half-smile in response.

This seemed all the more confirmed when Lady Chester caught sight of the table. "Is that strawberry jam?" she asked, staring at a pot of jam with all the focus of a falcon.

Wordlessly, the duchess slid it over toward the empty place setting, which Lady Chester sank gratefully into. She helped herself to a bun, which she proceeded to hastily slather with strawberry jam. It quickly became apparent, however, that the bun was merely a means of jam delivery, for it was positively drowning in the stuff.

Lady Chester bit into it appreciatively, her eyes fluttering closed a little as she did so. "Oh Annabella, thank you so very much. Please tell me there is plenty more."

The older sister smiled gently at the younger. "I prepared especially for you," she said, nodding toward another little crystal bowl of the ruby-red stuff.

All of this familiarity and personal affection was chafing against Beatrice. It was not that she was without feeling, but she had never been particularly close to anyone, preferring her independence. Now, to see all of this familiarity—the way they all glanced at one another, speaking without speaking, a touch here, a laugh there—made Beatrice feel like an intruder at a family soirée.

"Why am I here?" she blurted into the midst of the conversation.

All three across the table turned to blink at her in surprise. They were like a gradient of some sort: All the way to the left, Lady Chester, her copper-blonde hair curling becomingly over her ears, her skin pale as milk with peachy cheeks; the Duchess of Brandon in the middle, her hair darker blonde, shading to bronze, twisted up in an embroidered ribbon, her dark green eyes placid and watchful; and Lady Eva, dark eyes beneath darker brows, obsidian hair held loosely atop her head, her mouth like two perfectly formed flower petals. It was enough to make Beatrice feel outnumbered, which naturally put her back up a little.

"Well," Eva said, glancing once to the others, "it occurred to me that we might need more help than you and I could muster on our own. So—"

"So naturally, she came to me, and I went to Annabella," Patience interrupted, smiling warmly at her sister. "Naturally, we would like to help."

"But...why?" Beatrice asked, her brows knitting together. "None of you are my relation, we're not—" She paused, speaking haltingly, "We've not got the best history between us."

To her surprise, Lady Eva chuckled huskily. "That is true of all of us here," she said with a wry grin. "We've all been romantic rivals or otherwise at loggerheads. I'm sure darling Kitty would have loved to be part of this circle as well, but she's still off on her honeymoon."

"But...but why ?" Beatrice pressed. "We owe nothing to each other; you are not beholden to me."

"No, but who else will have a look out for us? Whom else might we call upon in our time of need, if not our fellow woman?" the duchess asked simply. "We have all known struggle and hardship, and I daresay there is not one of us here who would not have been glad of a sisterhood to call upon."

Lady Chester and Lady Eva both nodded, their expressions introspective. Beatrice looked at them, her eyes narrowed a little as if she could not discern if they were in earnest or having a jape at her expense. "Are you not worried about what will happen to you if you are seen in my company? What about your reputations ?"

"Reputation" was a weighty word for women: Their entire worth was tied up in that word, and not only their prospects, but those of their own daughters as well. It was a fickle thing, lost easily, and impossible to fully recover. Being seen out in public without a bonnet was enough to cause tongues to start wagging, let alone to be seen conspiring with someone of Beatrice's ilk.

The duchess was the first to break the silence that word had brought crashing down. "I think we've all had to break free of the ton in one way or another—I am the eccentric duchess, the seamstress who climbed out of the gutter to put a coronet on her head. I don't think anyone would be particularly surprised that I have taken in yet another wayward artiste ."

"My husband is a dandy, and I collect theatre troupes like some ladies collect fans," Lady Chester added. "I'm already tainted by that particular hobby."

Lady Eva nodded. "I married a dancer and became one myself; as far as the ton is concerned, I have fallen nearly as far as a young lady might."

"Which brings us to the first step of the plan," the duchess continued. "The first is to remind the ton that you have powerful friends—yes, you still do—and that we still wish to count you among our acquaintances. We will not flinch, and the ton will follow suit...eventually."

"Or so you hope," Beatrice murmured.

"That is true, we do hope," Her Grace continued. "The second part of the plan is to spirit you away from London. I understand that it may be necessary for you to take on employment in the meantime."

"That is so," Beatrice agreed, feeling her shoulders sag a little. "I suppose I am to be sent off to be a dance teacher in some far-flung wilderness, then?"

The three other ladies exchanged glances. "Not precisely," Lady Eva said vaguely. "Though that may be a part of your duties."

"My mother, the dowager, has heard tell of a very respectable man, a colonel, who requires a governess for his three wayward daughters. They have apparently proven too much for any other hand set to the task, and he is more than a little desperate," the duchess said.

"A governess ?" Beatrice gasped, her mouth agape. She looked between them, certain now that they were having her on. "You cannot be serious."

"Why not?" Lady Eva asked. "You already have experience teaching young ladies to dance. It cannot be much more than that."

"But—but what could I possibly teach them besides?" Beatrice demanded. She stood quickly and began pacing a little, agitated. "What use have I for needlepoint or sock darning?"

The duchess levelled a stare at Beatrice. "I should like to think that you would be able to teach them something a little more useful than that."

"Besides which," Lady Chester interjected, helping herself to another helping of jam with a bun, "it sounds as if this colonel cannot afford to be particularly...particular."

Lady Eva nodded. "We will make sure that you are provided with a perfectly respectable reference with no allusion to your previous...ah, occupation."

Beatrice's pacing slowed as she considered. It would be a very, very different life from what she was used to, and the whole concept of having complete charge of children was more than a little frightening to her. She'd never considered herself particularly maternal, and did not have the foggiest idea of what she might be able to do for these girls.

"Where is this alleged colonel to be found?" she asked at length.

Another round of glances met that question. "North...some miles outside of York," the duchess answered with some evident trepidation. Clearly seeing Beatrice's feelings on that subject evident on her face, the duchess raised a placating hand. "Now, please consider the merits. No one is likely to know your name that far from London, let alone your face. Even if they read the scandal sheets, which I doubt anyone up there does, they will not make the connection."

"You could become someone entirely new up there," Lady Eva said, her eyes searching Beatrice's face.

"And you could have a rest from...all of them ," Lady Chester added, her pert little nose wrinkling as she gestured broadly to indicate the ton.

Beatrice considered, trying not to dismiss the proposal out of hand. They all made cogent points, but part of her still demanded, York? The idea of being stranded in some Northern wilderness was not high on her list of things she wished to do. And yet, there was merit to this. She did not know how long she might have to spend in her apartment at the rate things were going. She stopped pacing, gripping the back of her chair with both hands.

"What would I even wear? It's not as if I have a governess's wardrobe," she pointed out, gesturing at her rather fabulous magenta pink silk hat, complete with curled feathers.

The duchess smiled broadly, her dark green eyes sparkling. Clearly, she took this inquiry as acceptance, however reluctant. "We've thought of that, too."

That did not particularly comfort Beatrice.